


Let Me Take You There

by stardust_made



Series: The High Tide Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Could be read as a stand-alone.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Let Me Take You There

**Author's Note:**

> Could be read as a stand-alone.

Sherlock usually frowns in bewilderment at trivial suggestions such as “You need to slow down.” or “Why don’t you kick back and relax?” Yet when John says “We could both do with a break”, Sherlock finds the idea eminently sensible. After the Moriarty business (where Moriarty tried to kill John) and the Tobias-Smith business (where Tobias-Smith tried to steal John)—a break could most certainly be done with.

It is new for Sherlock to want to go away and do nothing. Correction; he wants to do some things rather badly, but for the moment he doesn’t want to do any work. And until recently work amounted to everything in his life. This isn’t the first new experience Sherlock’s had of late. There’s a whole list of them, with caring, being jealous and pining for someone amongst the most interesting examples. It doesn’t take a genius to track them all down to their common source: one very unassuming John Watson.

Now that they are…together, Sherlock wants to spend all kinds of time with John. Plenty of the “working together” variety, of course—Sherlock can’t complain in _that_ department. He’s had some decent domestic time with John, too, but he fancies a great deal more of that. As for the “stalking John at work” kind…Short, but exciting. (And no, Sherlock doesn’t mean John, but the time spent at the surgery.) John was delicious in his professional mode. Sherlock has some definite plans to stalk him there some more—after all, a little commotion and John yelling have yet to deter him from doing anything.

Now, kissing—that is what they haven’t done anywhere near enough of. Hardly any embracing, either, aside from the first day. And no “having sex” time at all. Considering these are all top priorities for Sherlock, the omissions are disconcerting.

But he has sensed John’s insecurities as if they were his own. Yes, on that wonderful morning after the whole _misunderstanding_ about Tobias-Smith, Sherlock and John had stood barefoot and swooning in their kitchen and had kissed, tentative at first but then sensual and deep. Eventually their knees had given in and they had moved to the sofa, where hours were filled with dozing on and off, telly, some food—and more kissing. There were prize-winning erections poking everywhere, but nothing was done about that. And for good reason.

Both he and John have trodden over this new territory as if it were the fine crust of crème brûlée. Neither of them has the uncomplicated character or personal history to be able to carry this off effortlessly; there is so much potential for failure, they don't want to rush. In addition there are a couple of significant firsts: Sherlock hasn’t been so…taken with someone in his entire life and John—John has never been involved with a man, even remotely. This is one of the main reasons Sherlock is willing to give him all the space John needs to tame his fears. For the first time in his life Sherlock understands what it means for someone else’s happiness to matter, really matter.   


All of the kissing had happened on Tuesday. On Wednesday, an hour after John had gone to work, Lestrade called with news about a very exciting decapitation murder case. Habitually it took up all Sherlock’s focus and energy, and in retrospect John seemed fine with that. They worked around the clock, both very involved, but the change shimmered around them all the time. By Thursday evening the instances of deliberate physical contact had already outnumbered the fake-accidental ones. On the first day of the case, while they were waiting for the lab results, John had hugged Sherlock’s alert shoulders from behind and rested his chin on top of his head for the briefest of moments, peering at the laptop’s screen. And on Friday evening after the case was solved, they’d gone to Angelo’s, where lots of food had been consumed, looks had lingered, and knees had nestled together under the table. Back at home, both went randomly around the sitting room, their orbits slowly gravitating towards each other, until they collided by the window and Sherlock kissed John. It was electrifying. Sherlock’s got half-hard for two days now, every time he’s re-lived the moment.

So, all things considered, it wasn’t a big surprise that yesterday morning it was unanimously decided a break would do them a world of good.

***

Sherlock sits in the middle of their hotel bed, hands bundled in his lap, and does his best to look less hawkish in his eagerness for John. John’s quiet in the bathroom—using his towel now. Sherlock’s been deducing his actions from the moment John went in there ten minutes ago. 

The door of the bathroom is directly opposite the large bed in the otherwise small room. They chose this place on the spot, as they arrived, and they had only picked their destination the night before: John had been to the Isle of Scilly as a child and said he’d wanted to go there for several years. And Sherlock didn’t care where he went, only that John was there, too. The hotel is well located—not too close to the beach to avoid the holiday-makers, but not too far from the picturesque centre of St. Mary’s island, either. The room is quite expensive and has luxurious ambience, which pleases Sherlock—he wants John to feel comfortable.

There are now clinking sounds coming from the bathroom—John is putting his toothbrush into the glass. He’ll be out in a moment. Sherlock’s stomach flips.

The door opens and John appears with his wash bag in hand, wearing a light gray, nicely fitted t-shirt and a pair of dark gray boxer shorts. Sherlock asks himself for the tenth time today how it is possible for someone so seemingly plain to be so attractive. John’s hair is already half dry, which isn’t surprising: the weather is fantastic and John’s got fine hair. One strand just above the fringe has decided to dry up pointing upwards. Sherlock wants to curl it around his finger; more than that he wants to get on his knees and take John deep into his mouth right now. He attempts to gulp discreetly, while averting his eyes, but John’s own eyes jump right to the window—he’s noticed. What he doesn’t seem to notice is that he’s still standing in the bathroom doorframe, the picture of anxious uncertainty.

“Are you going back in the bathroom?” John asks.

Sherlock’s had a shower before John and has put on his pyjamas. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon but he doesn’t care—he has no plans to leave the room or this bed for the next few hours. He shakes his head. John turns off the bathroom light and turns on the fan. Then he walks to his travel bag, dropped in the far corner of the room, and puts his wash-bag in it. When he straightens his eyes dart to Sherlock. Sherlock wants to beckon him with a thousand reassuring phrases, to whisper and soothe.

“Come to bed,” he says instead.

John walks to the bed and hesitates: Sherlock’s taken most of it, his back propped on the pillows and his legs stretched freely. 

“Sit here,” Sherlock says, pointing vaguely at the space between his legs, while simultaneously spreading them a bit wider. John looks at him with a small frown. “Sit between my legs. You can lean back on my chest,” Sherlock clarifies, keeping to the same even, quiet tone. John feels like a dove to him—if doves had deadly aim with firearms and an alarming propensity for danger, that is. But at this moment John’s apprehension is fluttering around him, making his hidden vulnerability rise to the surface. “Please,” Sherlock adds and hopes his eyes still speak the language John understands like no one else does.

John climbs onto the bed and settles between Sherlock’s legs. He is reluctant to recline all the way, but Sherlock swiftly circles his waist with his right arm, while the other slides down John’s neck to his shoulder, manoeuvring him into Sherlock’s arms. The tension is palpable in John’s shoulder blades where they press into Sherlock’s chest, but Sherlock has all the time in the world to chase that tension away.

His arm stays around John’s waist like a warm belt; his left hand gently skims over John’s forehead and then up to bury itself in John’s hair. Sherlock’s effectively locked John into his embrace, but he’s sure to keep his hold loose. 

He starts combing the hair with his fingers: a rhythmic gesture that arranges the strands and occasionally scratches John’s scalp. The position makes John’s neck stretch and expose itself in tantalizing proximity to Sherlock’s lips. In a moment, Sherlock thinks. In a moment. He must rein himself in: it wouldn’t do if he scared John off with his insistent erection the moment he’d finally managed to get proper hold of him. Sherlock focuses on the texture of John’s hair: the slight squeaky dampness interspersing the thicker dry strands. John is already relaxing; Sherlock presses his lips to his right temple just once, inhaling—oh God, this is so good—

“That’s nice.” John echoes Sherlock’s thoughts, his voice even milder than usual. Sherlock could never have enough of the wondrous perplexity that is this man: a soldier with such a quiet, disarming voice. 

“Mm.” He hums his agreement and continues his lulling caress.

In a few moments John’s body has softened into the outer shell of Sherlock’s. Sherlock extracts his hand from John’s hair, only to let the back of his fingers start a stroking journey from the side of John’s face all the way down his arm then back up. The hairs on John’s lower arms begin to rise under the sensation just as his eyes begin to flutter shut. Sherlock smiles privately and brings his lips to John’s neck. Light, his kisses make John shiver and offer more of his throat. Sherlock takes advantage and opens his lips to let himself sample the skin. John swallows but doesn’t move; Sherlock closes his eyes and begins lavishing John’s neck with his tongue. He can feel himself growing hard again, but he hopes this is no longer a problem.

Sherlock loses himself for a moment: his fingers continue playing up and down John’s arm, while his other arm holds John securely in place. His lips gradually expand their conquests and Sherlock is pressing them all the way down to the edge of John’s t-shirt, but also under his jaw and behind his ear. When he returns to the ear for a second time Sherlock lets his hot breath moisten the shell, just for a few long seconds. Which is when John shifts for the first time and butts his head like a cat. Sherlock closes his mouth around John’s earlobe and grazes it with his teeth. John takes a sharp breath through his nose, his shoulders sinking further into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock finally lets both of his hands roam freely. He strokes the upper part of John’s body for a few minutes, nuzzles his nose in John’s hair and rubs his own face in it. Somewhere at the back of his mind Sherlock is astonished at how easily things are coming to him. But the astonishment is completely washed away by the waves of pleasure that surge through his entire body. He could do this forever. He is so grateful to John for letting him into this world of intimacy and quiet and focus that he would crawl down the bed and kiss his feet. He hopes to kiss his feet anyway; he has no doubt they are just as perfect as the rest of John.

But soon what he’s doing simply stops being enough. Sherlock wriggles John forward and gets hold of his t-shirt. John looks back at him, eyes unfocused, then lifts his arms. Sherlock strips him and takes advantage of the ruffled hair at the back of John’s neck to press a few quick, open-mouthed kisses there. He hears a faint _oh_ and John pushes back into him, resuming his previous position, his eyes closing again. John’s arms were crossed over his stomach before but now he drops them open on both sides of Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock’s eyes lower to John’s bare chest—it’s a stilted view from above his shoulder, but it’s enticing nonetheless. There’s not much hair, just a few wisps in the middle. John is just as compact as Sherlock thought he would be, but there’s more fleshy softness about him. Still, he is in good shape. Sherlock smiles to himself again—he’s harvesting the fruits of his own work here: he’s kept John fit. 

He caresses John’s torso for a while, curious and careful at the same time. There are chicken pox marks here and there and silky skin at other places; and there’s paleness that almost matches his own. Sherlock pushes John forward just enough to shift his head to rest on Sherlock’s right shoulder, thus allowing himself access to John’s injured one. All he has to do is lower his mouth—no, not yet. He consoles himself by compensating John’s earlier neglected left side so more kisses and nuzzling follow and John’s breathing becomes a discordance of air now, but remains hushed. Sherlock feels a prickling of impatience and his eyes fall over the two gorgeous darker spots on John’s chest. Sherlock splays his hands flat and symmetrical over John’s collarbone and starts gliding them slowly down. When he reaches John’s nipples, he barely brushes them in passing, but he doesn’t miss the sharp inhalation near his ear. Sherlock continues stroking all the way down to John’s abdomen and starts back up again immediately—this time he puts a bit more pressure in his brush over the nipples. On cue John’s lips part and Sherlock’s hardness accelerates madly. He lifts his palms to his mouth and licks their heels, then places them over John nipples and rubs in a single circular motion. John’s head falls back fully, his mouth opening in a silent gasp. Sherlock lowers his lips to John’s shoulder and now, now—

He closes his mouth over the ends of the scar and his tongue goes wild over it, while his palms continue teasing the hardened buds underneath them. John’s boxer shorts are teasing Sherlock in return, outlining something hard and shapely, and Sherlock’s mouth waters further. He vents his own arousal with a humming sound. John rubs his face into Sherlock’s, a more audible gasp trailing after Sherlock’s voice. His chest is moving subtly: pushing into the touch then withdrawing when he feels overstimulated. Sherlock abandons the shoulder to pop his own fingers into his mouth and then attacks John’s nipples, rolling them with exquisite precision. John moans and his head snaps to the left; his open mouth somehow finds Sherlock’s and Sherlock is lost in the pushes of John’s tongue, in the heat of him, and he is so hard he is afraid just the pressure of John’s body over his cock will be enough to make him come.

They kiss indulgently, while Sherlock keeps playing with John until he is all but squirming. Sherlock hastily returns to stroking his arms, his stomach, his belly; he doesn’t forget to make the odd fast raid to John’s nipples for light pinches, savouring his hitched exhalations. 

John has melted into his chest now, but Sherlock still pulls away from him and pauses when his thumbs hook under the edge of John’s boxer shorts. The grey eyes open at the sudden withdrawal of sensation and the two of them have real eye contact for the first time since John climbed onto the bed. _Please, please, please,_ Sherlock prays silently. Then John’s eyes droop and Sherlock feels his hips lift. He pushes down, another pair of hands helping him, and at long last he has John stark naked. 

John closes his eyes and rests back, this time hiding his face in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock cocoons him in his arms while his eyes immediately drop down to _look_ —and widen in lust at John’s flushed, fully erect cock. He aches to lunge and grab hold but he wills himself steady: this is about John, all of it. He wants John to be toppled by an experience better than anything he’s ever had, but more than that he wants John to feel good and safe.

Sherlock’s fingers wander to the hollow where the leg joins the hip and he touches the supremely smooth skin there. His hand sneaks down to cup John’s balls, already tight and hot. John’s breathing hitches and he tilts his pelvis up unconsciously, allowing Sherlock better access. Sherlock fondles his sac, relishing the intoxicating sense of power and closeness of the gesture, and his own eyelids grow heavy. Then he drags his hand upwards to draw semi-circles around John’s pubic hair, closing the range at every turn, until at last he trails over it. John makes an incoherent sound and strains his neck. 

Sherlock sucks his own digits again and barely controlling his hunger slides them over and around the crown of John’s cock. John hisses an _Oh God_ and suddenly the unmistakable smell of sex reaches Sherlock’s nostrils, making his head swim. He repeats his action, this time ending with the gentlest rub over the frenulum, and John arches into his arms. Sherlock does it again, then again—his fingers smooth over the head, tug, tap wetly on the most responsive spots and trickle down over the thin strip of sensitive flesh along the shaft. John’s closed eyelids are frenzied and his hands convulse sweetly over Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock is so mesmerised, he forgets his own arousal—all he wants to do is give John more pleasure.

But then he spots a tiny glistening drop at the slit of the head and just like that is sharply reminded of his own needs. Sherlock collects it and his throat contracts. He lifts the finger to eye level and marvels at the moisture, then carefully places it over his tongue and _oh_ , the _taste_! It shoots bolts of euphoria through his entire body, offers magnificent promises of things to come. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, he finds John’s own eyes—darkened, lost—watching him. Sherlock draws his finger out of his mouth and John stretches an arm behind to grab Sherlock’s neck, pushing him down into a kiss. Sherlock scoops him up in his arms and kisses him back desperately, messes his hair, drags his nails over John’s skin. He pants into John’s mouth and John’s tongue delves in, offering itself to be sucked. Sherlock obliges, clumsily lifting John up across his chest so he has a better access to his cock and then finally, _finally_ he is holding it. He squeezes and pulls a few times, John chocking on a moan and thrusting upwards. Sherlock lets go of the kiss and reels at the sight of John, furiously red, lips roughened and puffed up. Sherlock’s got plenty of natural lubricant to work with—he quickly wets his palm, then gathers John’s pre-come and closes his hold smoothly around his cock. His first few tugs are measured and then he starts building a steady rhythm, John’s ragged breathing guiding him. Sherlock’s other hand saunters all over John’s body, pressing and petting, and mashing. John’s head has lolled all the way back and Sherlock is yet again driven to madness. There’s such abandon in John’s posture, such trust—his legs fallen wide open, his arms, too. Sherlock is overcome with the need to hold him, to lock him in his embrace forever—he captures John’s head, burying his fingers in his hair once again; he continues to stroke John’s cock steadily, his wrist flicking at every third or fourth tug and John’s hips driving up to have _more_. 

John is close now. Sherlock can feel his head trying to roll from side to side, just as he feels John’s cock grow slicker and harder in his fist. John is panting and then there it is—a sound, a broken word that threatens to shatter Sherlock’s control to pieces: his own name. “Sher…Sherlock, oh, oh…Sh…,” John tries, and Sherlock knows it’s happening, now. “John,” he says, voice coarse, “John.” John snaps his eyes open, and he looks so undone—Sherlock locks eyes with him, his hand moving like it’s found its only purpose in the world. 

He feels the throbbing in John’s cock and the heaving of his chest, and in the second John starts coming Sherlock seals his mouth over his. He eats John’s groans and his sobs, makes love to his mouth, while he strokes him through his orgasm. John shakes and shakes, and Sherlock swallows and swallows, their world dissolving into a cascade of sensation and _us_.

John’s trembling gradually subsides and Sherlock releases his mouth and cock with reluctance. He finds John’s t-shirt and quickly cleans his hand, then cradles John again. He can feel him shivering, occasional stronger tremors still rocking his body. Sherlock pecks his neck—he doesn’t know if John likes to be touched so soon after coming—and uses the t-shirt to clean him up. John is like the big teddy bear his aunt gave Sherlock for his sixth birthday: surprisingly heavy but soft and manageable. John props himself on his hands when he feels Sherlock’s attempts to move and his eyes open in undiluted post-orgasmic haze. 

“Move over,” Sherlock murmurs, giving John’s body direction with a small nudge. John does and Sherlock pulls the bedding out from underneath them, then swiftly sits back and pulls John into himself. He throws the duvet over them and spoons John, who sighs quietly. Sherlock tentatively tickles John’s ear with his nose—another sigh follows and John settles more comfortably.

But in just a minute he lifts his head up with sudden urgency, as if an alarm clock has gone off next to him—and Sherlock knows this man so well, he already loves this man so much! John tries to turn around and reach for Sherlock’s neck, while tugging Sherlock’s t-shirt with his weak fist. “Com’ere. Let me—“ 

“Shh,” Sherlock says, placing the straying hand back on John’s stomach and laying his own over it. “I’m fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe.
> 
> The research for this piece was by far the most pleasant I'd done for a fic yet: looking at enchanting photos from the Isle of Scilly and going through footage of Nightwatch in search of a bare-chested Martin Freeman for accuracy. And while we're at it, let me leave you with one of my favourite quotes by Freeman. Love the man! He is talking about Nighwatch.
> 
> "I remember reading the script for a first time," he says. "Within a few pages I was already naked, having violence done to me and having sex with people, and I thought 'This is interesting.' "
> 
> Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/17724.html


End file.
